More than a gasp will ever allow. Less than a clasp will ever disavow. Secrets of the south head north for the winter's spring. Disillusion in the make up, a break up and the shake up of the weak little sapling.
Make with the merry go round and a round and round it goes. Where it stops, only the beat of a soft sound truly knows. One that comes shortly after the cracking of the back of the head. A poison arrow made lead, straight through the heart with a direct line through the mouth.
Enter the hallowed halls of the brush forest. A short and yellow scrubbing of the knees where dreams come and goes as quickly as a rush of blood from the head.
Written on Wednesday, 20 September 2006